It’s breakfast time in our household, and my 6-year-old daughter, Lily, calls out, “I need more milk!” She rushes toward the kitchen, eager to help, while I instinctively start to get up from the table. But I catch myself, reminding myself to let her handle this. I sink back into my chair, anxiously observing her efforts. She struggles with the refrigerator door, knocking over a bottle of salad dressing in the process. My grip on the table tightens as I feel my anxiety rise.
Lily strains to pull a nearly full gallon of milk from the fridge, a task that seems monumental for her small frame. I take deep breaths, recalling the parenting advice that emphasizes the importance of allowing children to try things on their own. What does this teach them, I wonder? My mind races, and I feel the muscles in my body tense as I picture the milk tipping precariously toward her little cup.
Before I know it, a cascade of milk spills onto the floor, and she looks up, exclaiming, “Oops!” as she tries to right the carton. I force a smile, handing her a mop while I grit my teeth. “It’s all good! Accidents happen,” I say, though inside I’m cringing.
After the kids leave for school, I often find myself avoiding their rooms. They make their beds as best they can, which to most parents would be satisfactory. But I’m not like most parents; I’m a recovering control enthusiast. When I finally venture upstairs, I cup my hands around my eyes, resembling a horse with blinders, muttering to myself, “It’s fine, it’s fine,” despite knowing the sheets are likely bunched up under the comforter.
My need to control extends far beyond just breakfast and bed-making. I bite my tongue when I see Lily come downstairs with a messy ponytail or when her brother, Max, struggles to fit puzzle pieces together. The overwhelming urge to intervene and take over is always present.
In the past, my controlling nature served me well. In my professional life, tasks were completed efficiently and accurately; my colleagues could depend on me, although perhaps not with much enthusiasm. My life was meticulously organized, and everything was in its place. The only downside? I became a nervous flyer, unable to relinquish control over the cockpit.
When I was pregnant, friends warned me that parenthood would force me to change my ways. “This little one will challenge your control freak tendencies,” they said as I organized their kitchen drawers. I brushed off their advice, but they were right.
I’m working hard to embrace a different approach, aware that children need the chance to learn from their mistakes. Natural consequences are beneficial; after all, falling is part of learning to walk. I remind myself that a rumpled sheet isn’t going to harm anyone. Say it with me: that balled-up sheet will not cause any damage.
As my children discover perseverance and resilience, I too am learning to let go. Each morning, as I watch them fumble with shoelaces—my eyebrow twitching in response to the slow pace—I realize we are all on this journey together.
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Summary:
Navigating the challenges of parenting as a control enthusiast can be tough. It’s essential to let children try and sometimes fail to learn valuable lessons. By recognizing that not everything needs to be perfect, both parents and kids can grow together in resilience and patience.